It was the third of July and all through the town,
Not a creature was stirring, no one making a sound.
The subways were empty, the coffee shop bare,
Can you blame them? Look what this humidity does to my hair.
The three day weekend has come,
New Yorkers have flown the coop,
Maybe because the City smells like poop?
Well, I'm still here and so is Babe.
We'll be running around, enjoying the nabe.
What are you up to? Are you going away?
Come visit me! There is room to stay.